An Irish Country Doctor by Patrick Taylor Read Free Book Online Page B

starter.
    "Damnation," went O'Reilly.
    Red went the light.
    The starter's note rose two full octaves, nurgling and phutting to no avail.
    Green went the light. Barry looked behind. A line of cars and lorries stretched up the main street. More horns started to blow.
    O'Reilly got out as the light changed back to red. He strode up to the tractor. As green once more appeared ahead, Barry heard O'Reilly's bellow over the rumbling of engines and the honking of horns.
    "Tell me, Donal Donnelly, you miserable apology for a human being, tell me so I'll understand . . . was there a particular shade of green you were waiting for?"
    Barry changed out of his muddy best pants and shoes as soon as they arrived at O'Reilly's house, and then joined him in the upstairs lounge to watch television. The Ireland under-twenty-three rugby football squad had beaten the Scots.
    He finished the last of Mrs. Kincaid's cold lobster salad and put the plate on a coffee table beside his armchair.
    O'Reilly belched contentedly, stared through the bay window, and said, "She's a dab hand in the kitchen is Kinky." 
    "Agreed." The cold meal had been delicious.
    "Don't know what I'd do without her." O'Reilly wandered over to the sideboard. "Sherry?"
    "Please."
    Barry waited as O'Reilly poured a small sherry for him and a gargantuan Irish whiskey for himself. "Here." He gave the sherry to Barry. "Seems like she's been with me forever." He sat in his armchair. "I'd not have the practice if it hadn't been for Kinky." 
    "Oh?"
    "I came here in nineteen thirty-eight, assistant to Doctor Flanagan. Crusty old bugger. I was just out of school, reckoned I was no goat's toe, and he was pretty out of date, and I'll tell you, some of the things he did were very unorthodox, even for back then." 
    "Really?" Barry hoped that his smile would go unnoticed.
    "His big concern . . . he warned me about it. . . was a strange condition that he'd only ever seen in Ballybucklebo. Cold groin abscesses."
     "What?"
    "Cold groin abscesses. He said he saw a lot of them in labouring men. He always lanced them."
     "He did surgery here, in the village?"
    "GPs did before the war. That's all changed now. We have to refer surgical cases to the hospital. Maybe it's for the best. . . the last time I took out an appendix was on the old Warspite." He took a long pull on his drink. "Anyway, 'Cold groin abscesses,' says Flanagan to me, 'when you lance them, you never get pus. Just wind or shit. . . and the patient dies about four days later." 
    Barry sat bolt upright. "He thought inguinal hernias were abscesses?" 
    "He did. And when he sliced into the rupture he always cut into--" 
    "The bowel. Good God. What did you do?"
    "Tried to suggest to him that maybe he didn't have it quite right."
     "And?"
    "I only ever tried to correct Doctor Flanagan that once. You've no idea how cantankerous some old country GPs could be, and I needed the money. Jobs were hard to come by back then." 
    "Not like today," Barry said, holding his glass to his lips to hide his expression. "I'm surprised you stayed." 
    "I didn't. I volunteered for the navy as soon as war broke out."
     "What brought you back?"
    "When the war was over I'd had enough of the navy, so I wrote to Doctor Flanagan. I got a letter back from his housekeeper, Mrs. Kincaid, to say that he'd died and the practice was up for sale." 
    "You bought it?"
    "You had to in those days, and I had my gratuity as an ex serviceman. That, and a bank loan, bought me the house and the goodwill of the practice and Mrs. Kincaid agreed to stay on. We've been here since nineteen forty-six." O'Reilly looked at his now empty glass, grabbed Barry's, and announced, "A bird can't fly on one wing."
    "I really shouldn't. . . ."
    "Here," said O'Reilly, handing over a refilled glass. "Sit down." Barry sat.
    O'Reilly followed suit. "Where was I?"
    "You bought the practice."
    O'Reilly held his glass in both big hands. "And damn nearly lost it in the first year."
    "What